Lyre and Lancet: A Story in Scenes. Anstey F.

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Bertie Pilliner. He gets cheaper than that in the next poem. This is his idea of "Abasement."

[He reads.

      "With matted head a-dabble in the dust,

      And eyes tear-sealèd in a saline crust,

      I lie all loathly in my rags and rust —

      Yet learn that strange delight may lurk in self-disgust."

      Now, do you know, I rather like that – it's so deliciously decadent!

      Lady Rhoda. I should call it utter rot, myself.

      Bertie Pilliner (blandly). Forgive me, Lady Rhoda. "Utterly rotten," if you like, but not "utter rot." There's a difference, really. Now, I'll read you a quaint little production which has dropped down to the bottom of the page, in low spirits, I suppose. "Stanza written in Depression near Dulwich."

[He reads.

      "The lark soars up in the air;

      The toad sits tight in his hole;

      And I would I were certain which of the pair

      Were the truer type of my soul!"

      Archie Bearpark. I should be inclined to back the toad, myself.

      Miss Spelwane. If you must read, do choose something a little less dismal. Aren't there any love songs?

      Bertie Pilliner. I'll look. Yes, any amount – here's one. (He reads.) "To My Lady."

      "Twine, lanken fingers lily-lithe,

      Gleam, slanted eyes all beryl-green,

      Pout, blood-red lips that burst awrithe,

      Then – kiss me, Lady Grisoline!"

      Miss Spelwane (interested). So that's his type. Does he mention whether she did kiss him?

      Bertie Pilliner. Probably. Poets are always privileged to kiss and tell. I'll see … h'm, ha, yes; he does mention it … I think I'll read something else. Here's a classical specimen.

[He reads.

      "Uprears the monster now his slobberous head,

      Its filamentous chaps her ankles brushing;

      Her twice-five roseal toes are cramped in dread,

      Each maidly instep mauven-pink is flushing."

      And so on, don't you know… Now I'll read you a regular rouser called "A Trumpet Blast." Sit tight, everybody!

[He reads.

      "Pale Patricians, sunk in self-indulgence, (One for you, dear Archie!)

      Blink your blearèd eyes. (Blink, pretty creatures, blink!) Behold the Sun —

      Burst proclaim, in purpurate effulgence,

      Demos dawning, and the Darkness – done!"

[General hilarity, amidst which Lady Culverin enters.

      Lady Culverin. So glad you all contrive to keep your spirits up, in spite of this dismal weather. What is it that's amusing you all so much, eh, dear Vivien?

      Miss Spelwane. Bertie Pilliner has been reading aloud to us, dear Lady Culverin —the most ridiculous poetry – made us all simply shriek. What's the name of it? (Taking the volume out of Bertie's hand.) Oh, Andromeda, and other Poems. By Clarion Blair.

      Lady Culverin (coldly). Bertie Pilliner can turn everything into ridicule, we all know; but probably you are not aware that these particular poems are considered quite wonderful by all competent judges. Indeed, my sister-in-law —

      All (in consternation). Lady Cantire! Is she the author? Oh, of course, if we'd had any idea —

      Lady Culverin. I've no reason to believe that Lady Cantire ever composed any poetry. I was only going to say that she was most interested in the author, and as she and my niece Maisie are coming to us this evening —

      Miss Spelwane. Dear Lady Culverin, the verses are quite, quite beautiful; it was only the way they were read.

      Lady Culverin. I am glad to hear you say so, my dear, because I'm also expecting the pleasure of seeing the author here, and you will probably be his neighbour to-night. I hope, Bertie, that you will remember that this young man is a very distinguished genius; there is no wit that I can discover in making fun of what one doesn't happen to understand.

[She passes on.

      Bertie (plaintively, after Lady Culverin has left the room). May I trouble somebody to scrape me up? I'm pulverised! But really, you know, a real live poet at Wyvern! I say, Miss Spelwane, how will you like to have him dabbling his matted head next to you at dinner, eh?

      Miss Spelwane. Perhaps I shall find a matted head more entertaining than a smooth one. And, if you've quite done with that volume, I should like to have a look at it.

[She retires with it to her room.

      Archie (to himself). I'm not half sorry this Poet-johnny's comin'; I never caught a Bard in a booby-trap yet.

      Captain Thicknesse (to himself). She's coming – this very evenin'! And I was nearly sayin' I must get back to Aldershot!

      Lady Rhoda. So Lady Cantire's comin'; we shall all have to be on our hind legs now! But Maisie's a dear thing. Do you know her, Captain Thicknesse?

      Captain Thicknesse. I – I used to meet Lady Maisie Mull pretty often at one time; don't know if she'll remember it, though.

      Lady Rhoda. She'll love meetin' this writin' man – she's so fearfully romantic. I heard her say once that she'd give anythin' to be idealized by a great poet – sort of – what's their names – Petrarch and Beatrice business, don't you know. It will be rather amusin' to see whether it comes off – won't it?

      Captain Thicknesse (choking). I – ah – no affair of mine, really. (To himself.) I'm not intellectual enough for her, I know that. Suppose I shall have to stand by and look on at the Petrarchin'. Well, there's always Aldershot!

[The luncheon gong sounds, to the general relief and satisfaction.

      PART III

      THE TWO ANDROMEDAS

      Opposite a Railway Bookstall at a London Terminus. Time —Saturday, 4.25 P.M.

      Drysdale (to his friend, Galfrid Undershell, whom he is "seeing off"). Twenty minutes to spare; time enough to lay in any quantity of light literature.

      Undershell (in a head voice). I fear the merely ephemeral does not appeal to me. But I should like to make a little experiment. (To the Bookstall Clerk.) A – do you happen to have a copy left of Clarion Blair's Andromeda?

      Clerk. Not in stock, sir. Never 'eard of the book, but dare say I could get it for you. Here's a Detective Story we're sellin' like 'ot cakes —The Man with the Missing Toe– very cleverly written story, sir.

      Undershell. I merely wished to know – that was all. (Turning with resigned disgust to Drysdale.) Just think of it, my dear СКАЧАТЬ